Pull Me Through
by ThePointe
Summary: (Posted Earlier But Edited ) Nick is sick. Very, very sick.He swears in typical Nick fashion that he is okay, but in typical Amanda fashion, she's there anyway. Will the relationship survive not only the illness but everything else. Rollaro is the focus and maybe Bensidy or Livid.


**A/N: This is shit. No everybody says that, but this sucks. I write better than this. I'm trying something new, and this a new fandom and a new genre. I usually write things on the funny side. I'm sorry this sucks, but I really want a lot of constructive criticism, whether it is on grammar, characterization, spelling, basic rules of life, anything. This is my first time writing for the SVU fandom and there barely is any stories for the Amanda/Nick pairing, and this baby came to be. It was inspire a bit by Love and Other Drugs and The Fault in Our Stars (that's another thing, if it looks like I am blatantly ripping off from those sources or anything else, tell me, please.)**

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't in the plans, it wasn't even something on my radar, or even fully aware of. It wasn't one of the big ones, that seemed more urgent, more dangerous. Cancer. A Heart Attack. Stroke. It wasn't a risk, for you anyway and it wasn't even close to a worry for you .Multiple Sclerosis. I heard about it, in an abstract way. Jimmy Capone's dad, my neighbor in the 5th grade had it. You wonder how he's doing

* * *

"Nick?" The doctor asks "Is there somebody you want me to call? A wife? A girlfriend?" she puts her hand on my arm, comfortingly, the way all doctors seem to intrinsically be able to do. Maybe they did a lesson on it in medical school. I laugh, and a short little chuckle and I wonder why. None of this is the least bit funny. Not at all.

"Should I check your emergency contacts?" She continues, staring at me like I grew a second head. In all actuality, a second brain might not be the worst thing that could happen, since the original copy seems malfunctioning. At least, that's how I understand it.

"I think I can get myself home." I manage and try to smile.

"I can't in good faith let you drive yourself home." She fake smiles "Partly, because of the severity of your symptoms at this time and partly, because I'm afraid that you might, you know drive yourself off a cliff." She smiles again "Sorry, gallows humor."

I nod and grab your coat, perched on the end of the hospital bed. The room seems to spin for a moment, then it realigns itself. I take a second and a deep breath.

* * *

I am way too disoriented. Sleepy, like I just woke up. It would actually be great if I just woke up, and this was all some sort of messed up nightmare. But it's real and it's happening and I can't change it or do anything to mitigate it. I have never been so out of control, and that scares me, more than this terrible disease threatening to take over my whole life.

"Nick" She says. Her voice sounds like it's running through molasses. "Are you okay?"

It's funny how out of everything terrible that has happened today, that is the question that makes me break down. Out of the terrible tests, the explanations of my sickness, and the diagnosis; the simple question from Amanda hits you the hardest.

"Thank you for calling me", she says to nurse at Mercy General. She grabs my hand, and leads me out the double doors, back home.

* * *

I wake up, for the second time, on my couch.

"Hey" she says smiling "I'm making you an omelette and I was going to make you blueberry muffins, but your fridge is almost empty, so you're gonna have to live with cinnamon." I wonder if she knows. That would explain how sweet she was being.

"Are you cold?" She asks "You're shaking"

Ah, the tremors, one of the numerous lovely perks of MS. Along with speech troubles, dizziness, and much more. And those symptoms were "good day symptoms".

She walks over to my linen closet and grabs an afghan. I've noticed she changed out of her customary work clothes and into a pair of black form fitting leggings that she keeps here and one of my NYPD shirts. She places the afghan and sits on the leg of my couch, I beckon for her to come closer and I place my head on her lap. She runs her hand through my hair, massaging your scalp.

I break the silence "You don't have to be here. " I tell her. And I'm right. She doesn't have to be here. I'm not her boyfriend or her husband, and just because we had a few "moments" (okay I've slept with her more than a couple of times) she shouldn't feel obligated.

"I know."She shifts slightly, moving my head "I want to." She pauses, looking down at me. "You know, for a guy you use a large amount of product in your hair".

I wonder if she is trying to make me feel better because she knows how just sick I am or if she is playing around.

"Seriously, your hair has more oil than the Middles East." She jokes.

I laugh, which aggravates my tremors more and then turns my laughs in to coughing hacks. This worries her, I could tell the way she drew back. She knows. Definitely.

"Nick, I'm going to get your food, okay?" She gets up. I already miss the warmth she provided.


End file.
